Workaday
by Allekha
Summary: [Papers, Please] You spend a day at work, checking papers, checking pictures, listening to yet another sob story. Today is a good day, because it does not end with a terrorist attack.


You are fortunate enough to live in that odd middle ground where you are far enough from work that the walk is drudgery in winter, yet not so far that you can take the public transport to save time. So every morning, you have to trudge twenty minutes through the fresh snowfall. If you get there ten minutes early, then you have time to check for any new rules and arrange your desk to your liking before the border opens. Thus, every day, you rise at five am, scramble into your clothes, eat a very quick breakfast while your wife puts together a lunch, if she didn't the night before, and head out into the winter gloom. (A better apartment would be closer. You asked your wife if she wanted to move. She looked at you and said that you had only just come to this apartment, surely you can wait a few weeks. You wonder if you should ask again, with your niece now squeezing in to the narrow bed with your son at night. The children should have space.)

The border opens at six, closes at six. Your wife or her mother will have finished cooking dinner by the time you get back, assuming there is money for food – but lately there is, even with another mouth to feed, and for the heat as well, as you have always been detail-oriented and there are plenty enough bribes. Then a few hours for your family, then to sleep, and then the alarm the next morning. You do not have days off.

The first entrant has a fake passport. Surely any forger should be aware enough to choose an issuing city in the right country, you think as you hit the detainment button. The second is missing a new identity document that was introduced only yesterday. She stares at you when you tell her why you cannot let her in, takes her papers, tells you that this is her third attempt to get through. Her passport expires in five days. You do not know what to tell her.

The third has correct papers, you are absolutely sure of it – correct seals, sex, date of birth, issuing city, name, nothing expired. You still brace yourself as he leaves, ready to flinch at the sound of the printer giving you a citation, but there is nothing. You call the next entrant in. He has expired papers. He offers you ten credits to stamp him through anyway. He doesn't look offended when you refuse.

The fifth is carrying drugs. The sixth is carrying drugs. The seventh has somehow gained seven kilograms since receiving their identity supplement two days ago. However carefully you search their photos, you find nothing, and let them through. You are relieved that you hear no explosion, no screaming. The next entrant's weight is exactly as listed on his ID. Unfortunately, it is a fake.

Lunch is a short affair. Sergiu takes it with you as of late. There is usually nothing to talk about, but the company is nice. The warmth of two bodies in your little booth is nicer. Why should the government pay for the heating in here? You do not remove your coat all day and sometimes wear two scarves. Alas, your gloves have to come off to sort through the myriad papers and flip through your rule book. They freeze stiff, and your cold lunch does not help.

The ninth person has correct papers. The tenth person has correct papers. The eleventh is faking at being a diplomat. The twelfth has a sob-story about meeting her husband. You are not sure if she is lying. Her papers are expired by over a week. She curses at you as you deny her. You almost wish she would put up enough of a fuss to detain her, another five credits for your family, but she doesn't, and you almost feel guilty about wanting to arrest her, but you don't.

The thirteenth is a criminal. Or a dissident. What's the difference?

The fourteenth has wide, sad eyes, and looks at your son's drawing on the wall while you check his documents. A worker. You like them the least. Too many papers. You shuffle them around, cross-reference everything while the clock ticks away. Everything is fine. He gives you a thin smile before he steps out.

The last person of the day is an asylum seeker. You wonder what other countries are like, that Arstotzka is asylum. Well, at least you don't have polio here. At least there is no war here. Their fingerprints match up. The pictures in the documents are different, younger and untroubled, without a scar over the cheek. They make no expression when you let them in.

The crowd outside disperses, people sighing and cursing at having waited all day for nothing. At least you are on this side of the checkpoint. At least you exit your booth on the Arstotzka side, shove your frozen hands into your pockets, nod at Sergiu as you pass him, and head home for a hot dinner.

Maybe your son will have another drawing to show you. Your niece, far more talented at art, is trying to teach him to draw properly. She has not yet asked why her mother was arrested. You think she is old enough that she knows not to ask. Not about her mother, not about the man who will show up at your apartment this evening with extra credits, not about the immigration policies you have no control over. You think you might buy her something on the way home; there's money enough.

Today was a good day. No good bribes, but no citations. No stories that dug into your heart enough to earn one. No mysterious EZIC agents begging your help to undermine the government. No more rules added in pencil to your rulebook. No terrorist attacks.

You know that means tomorrow will be a different story.

* * *

A/N: Written for the prompt 'work'.


End file.
